The caterpillar of another still more singular grain-moth (Tinea Hordei, Kirby and Spence) proves sometimes very destructive of granaries. The mother-moth, in May or June, lays about twenty or more eggs on a grain of barley or wheat; and when the caterpillars are hatched they disperse, each selecting a single grain. M. Réaumur imagines that sanguinary wars must sometimes arise, in cases of preoccupancy, a single grain of barley being a rich heritage for one of these tiny insects; but he confesses he never saw such contests. When the caterpillar has eaten its way into the interior of the grain, it feeds on the farina, taking care not to gnaw the skin nor even to throw out its excrements, so that except the little hole, scarcely discernible, the grain appears quite sound. When it has eaten all the farina, it spins itself a case of silk within the now hollow grain, and changes to a pupa in November.
Tent-making Caterpillars.
The caterpillars of a family of small moths (Tineidæ), which feed on the leaves of various trees, such as the hawthorn, the elm, the oak, and most fruit-trees, particularly the pear, form habitations which are exceedingly ingenious and elegant. They are so very minute that they require close inspection to discover them; and to the cursory observer, unacquainted with their habits, they will appear more like the withered leaf-scales of the tree, thrown off when the buds expand, than artificial structures made by insects. It is only, indeed, by seeing them move about upon the leaves, that we discover they are inhabited by a living tenant, who carries them as the snail does its shell.
These tents are from a quarter of an inch to an inch in length, and usually about the breadth of an oat-straw. That they are of the colour of a withered leaf is not surprising; for they are actually composed of a piece of leaf; not, however, cut out from the whole thickness, but artfully separated from the upper layer, as a person might separate one of the leaves of paper from a sheet of pasteboard.
The tents of this class of caterpillars, which are found on the elm, the alder, and other trees with serrated leaves, are much in the shape of a minute goldfish. They are convex on the back, where the indentations of the leaf out of which they have been cut add to the resemblance, by appearing like the dorsal fins of the fish. By depriving one of those caterpillars common on the hawthorn of its tents, for the sake of experiment, we put it under the necessity of making another; for, as Pliny remarks of the clothes-moth, they will rather die of hunger than feed unprotected. When we placed it on a fresh hawthorn leaf, it repeatedly examined every part of it, as if seeking for its lost tent, though, when this was put in its way, it would not again enter it; but, after some delay, commenced a new one. (J. R.)
A Caterpillar’s tent upon a leaf of the elm.—
a, a, The part of the leaf from which the
tent has been cut out; b, the tent itself.
For this purpose, it began to eat through one of the two outer membranes which compose the leaf and enclose the pulp (parenchyma), some of which, also, it devoured, and then thrust the hinder part of its body into the perforation. The cavity, however, which it had formed, being yet too small for its reception, it immediately resumed the task of making it larger. By continuing to gnaw into the pulp between the membranes of the leaf (for it took the greatest care not to puncture or injure the membranes themselves), it soon succeeded in mining out a gallery rather larger than was sufficient to contain its body. We perceived that it did not throw out as rubbish the pulp it dug into, but devoured it as food—a circumstance not the least remarkable in its proceedings.
As the two membranes of leaf thus deprived of the enclosed pulp appeared white and transparent, every movement of the insect within could be distinctly seen; and it was not a little interesting to watch its ingenious operations while it was making its tent from the membranes prepared as we have just described. These, as Réaumur has remarked, are in fact to the insect like a piece of cloth in the hands of a tailor; and no tailor could cut out a shape with more neatness and dexterity than this little workman does. As the caterpillar is furnished in its mandibles with an excellent pair of scissors, this may not appear to be a difficult task; yet, when we examine the matter more minutely, we find that the peculiar shape of the two extremities requires different curvatures, and this, of course, renders the operation no less complex, as Réaumur subjoins, than the shaping of the pieces of cloth for a coat.[BW] The insect, in fact, shapes the membranes slightly convex on one side and concave on the other, and at one end twice as large as the other. In the instance which we observed, beginning at the larger end, it bent them gently on each side by pressing them with its body thrown into a curve. We have not said it cuts, but shapes its materials; for it must be obvious that if the insect had cut both the membranes at this stage of its operations, the pieces would have fallen and carried it along with them.
To obviate such an accident it proceeded to join the two edges, and secure them firmly with silk, before it made a single incision to detach them. When it had in this manner joined the two edges along one of the sides, it inserted its head on the outside of the joining, first at one end and then at the other, gnawing the fibres till that whole side was separated. It proceeded in the same manner with the other side, joining the edges before it cut them: and when it arrived at the last fibre, the only remaining support of its now finished tent, it took the precaution, before snipping it, to moor the whole to the uncut part of the leaf by a cable of its own silk. Consequently, when it does cut the last nervure, it is secure from falling, and can then travel along the leaf, carrying its tent on its back, as a snail does its shell. (J. R.)